


Wake Up Call

by ooinugirloo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Pining, Werewolf Conferences & Conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooinugirloo/pseuds/ooinugirloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who would have thought that it would take attending the 2016 Packs, Alphas, and the World Convention for Stiles and Derek to realize that they’ve been mutually and needlessly pining for each other for years? Not Stiles, that’s for sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Up Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fauvistfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauvistfly/gifts).



> This is my fill for fauvistfly, who requested:  
> Canon or AU in which Derek and Stiles are photographed and/or recorded during some kind of summit/interview thing, and it becomes obvious on the screen how they feel. Unfortunately, they are both so mortified by their own reactions that they don't see that it's mutual. (Doesn't have to be explicit but can be)
> 
> It's more-or-less canon through Season 2, unless there are any glaring continuity errors within that timeframe, at which point we'll just say it's AU, lol. I started writing the background for the prompt and then realized, 6000 words later, that I hadn't even gotten to the prompted scene yet, so. This kinda got out of hand, but I hope that you like it!! :D

_To Whom it May Concern,_

_It has come to our attention that the Beacon Hills Pack has not yet applied for admission to the Rising Moon Supernatural Society, nor has it sent a representative to attend the local Packs, Alphas, and the World Convention. This demonstrates a disturbing disregard for the forging of connections within the larger Supernatural population, and you are strongly urged to take part in the future, for the good of the community._

_Regards,_

_Martín Rodriguez_

_South Bay Pack_

_Council of Alphas, Pacific Region_

 

Stiles blinks several times, re-reading the e-mail that Scott had forwarded to him.

“Dude,” he says into the phone still held to his ear, temporarily forgotten due to the sheer pompous ridiculousness of the words on the screen in front of him.

“I know,” Scott replies, sounding torn between feeling guilty and indignant. “They make it sound like it was my fault I didn’t go to that conference thing—I was only bitten 5 years ago, and the first two of those were literally just us fighting for our lives. It wasn’t like Peter dropped off an instruction manual along with the lycanthropy.” His voice drops to a whine at the end, petulance winning out. 

“Yeah, well,” Stiles hums, wedging the phone between his cheek and shoulder so that he can start typing into the _‘Team BAMF’_ group chat on Facebook. “None of us were exactly born to this stuff—except Derek, but I don’t think he was old enough to get invited to secret werewolf leadership conferences before—everything.”

_Stiles:_ So, somebody remind me—did we have a contingency plan for inadvertently pissing off the supernatural community by skipping out on their ‘The Were  & You” convention?

Stiles hears a muffled thump from across the tinny phone line and knows from years of experience that Scott has just thrown himself face down on his bed. The computer boops with a message notification, though, so he leaves Scott to his comforter for the moment.

_Lydia:_ What.

Stiles winces—Lydia only uses full stops with him these days if she’s really peeved. He copy/pastes the e-mail into the chat and waits, knowing that her response won’t be long in coming. He also sees the little green lights come on beside Allison and Danny’s names and spares a moment to be thankful to Mark Zuckerberg for allowing them all to conference-chat like this. Distressed rumbling starts to come from his phone, and Stiles shushes soothingly in response, like he has a million times in the history of his and Scott’s friendship, though asthma attacks and scraped knees and werewolf bites.

“Hey, don’t worry, bro. I’m on it—we’ll get this all sorted out in no time, you’ll see. Let me handle it from here; you worry about that chemistry test you have coming up.”

Scott groans again, but this one is less dismayed and more resigned, the signature call of students everywhere. Stiles’s computer is letting out a near-constant litany of booping now, so Stiles reassures Scott a few more times before saying goodbye and turning back to the screen. 

_Lydia:_ “Did not send a representative to attend”—we weren’t invited, how were we supposed to know that there was an event to attend?

_Lydia:_ Why are Alphas so stupid? Is it included along with the muttonchops and red eyes?

_Allison:_ For god’s sake

_Allison:_ My dad’s never heard of any of this either, though I’d imagine that this is exactly the sort of thing that no one wants hunters to know about, so

_Allison:_ Should I start stocking up, in case this Rodriguez comes knocking?

_Danny:_ I just wanted one year to go by without any supernatural bullshit

_Danny:_ ONE YEAR

_Lydia:_ All else aside, this conference could be a great networking opportunity.

_Lydia:_ Lord knows Derek was never good at that.

_Lydia:_ Stiles.

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes, already typing his reply.

_Stiles:_ Sorry, sorry, our fearless leader called me to complain

_Stiles:_ Lyds—I agree with you, and I call DIBS on going to the conference and stuff!

_Stiles:_ Ally—Not just yet. But don’t think you’ve fooled me into thinking that you don’t have an arsenal in your basement already, ‘cause you totally do.

_Stiles:_ Danny—C’mon, man, it’s BEACON HILLS

_Stiles:_ Also, has no one else noticed that the conference’s acronym is PAW. They named a werewolf convention PAW Con. It’s like a dream come true~

As he sends the message off he can perfectly visualize Lydia and Danny’s rolling eyes in his mind’s eye.

_Lydia:_ Were there any threats of immediate dismemberment in that e-mail? Because if not, I’ve got a string theory final to ace.

_Allison:_ We’re all going home for Thanksgiving next week anyway, right? We should just have a pack meeting and talk about it all together.

_Danny:_ Seconded

Stiles glanced at his calendar, surprised, as always, at how Thanksgiving managed to sneak up on him.

_Stiles:_ Motion upheld. Go kick some ass, Lyds!

He noted Danny’s thumbs-up and Allison’s saluting emoji, and chuckled at the quintessential Lydia rejoinder (“Please, as if I could do anything but.”) before closing the lid of his laptop and stretching, spinning around in his chair.

It had been quite a while since there had been a disruption like this to the pack—one that wasn’t an outright threat, the way that the wendigos, ghouls, and fae were—but something more diplomatic. Stiles smirked a bit, cracking his knuckles. For all that he was a dab hand with a baseball bat and some mountain ash, everyone knew that Stiles’s true strength was talking. This Martín Rodriguez wouldn’t know what hit him.

 

*

 

The week passed quickly in a haze of exams and papers, the way that school before a vacation tends to. Almost before he knew it, Stiles was pulling into the driveway of his father’s house, the Jeep wheezing out an indignant groan at the long drive. Stiles cut the ignition and patted the dashboard, murmuring consolingly. “Easy, girl. It was only, like, 4 hours from Berkeley, I’ve seen you handle much worse drives than that. There wasn’t even a supernatural creature bleeding in your passenger seat this time!”

Heaving himself out from behind the wheel, Stiles barely has both feet on the ground before a body is crashing into his, an exuberant “Bro!!” shouted into his ear.

Stiles beams, wrapping his arms around his best friend, and yells “Bro!” back in their customary call-and-response. “When’d you get back?”

“Like and hour ago. I’ve been hanging out with my mom, but then I felt you and came right over.”

Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “You felt me, huh?” Scott pinches his side and shoves him off with a laugh. “I can’t believe I missed you, you weirdo.”

“Psh, there’s a hole in your heart when I’m not there, Scotty. When’s the rest of the Scooby Gang getting in?”

“Uhhhh, Danny had a 1:30 flight from LA, but he’s hanging out at the airport until Lydia and Jackson’s red-eye from Boston gets in at 3, so they should all be here by 5-ish, I think.”

Stiles nods, ticking people off on his fingers. “Ally started road-tripping from ASU yesterday, so she should be here this afternoon, and I’d bet good money that the leather triplets are already sacked out at Derek’s, eating his food.” He looks up and catches Scott’s eyes, smiling. “Which gives us a good 3 hours to find and eat all the junk food in my house and play Xbox until someone comes to get us.”

Scott nods solemnly, holding his fist up. Stiles bumps it, making an explosion noise, content in the knowledge that no matter what else may change, his friendship with Scott will remain constant.

 

*

 

The pack meeting that evening goes about as well as you could expect from a group of competitive, argumentative, perfectionists. Which is to say, not at all. 

“So, basically,” Stiles cuts into the bickering, “what you’re all saying is that we need more information, right?” Lydia glares at Erica, who glares right back. Boyd sighs and Isaac scoots closer to Scott, who is making puppy eyes at Allison. Danny kicks Jackson, who had been muttering under his breath, and Derek rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right.” Stiles answers himself. “Why don’t we just e-mail that guy back, then?” As the pack turns incredulous glances on him, Stiles shrugs. “Well what else are we going to do? Googling ‘werewolf convention’ is going to get us a lot of weird results, but not very many relevant ones. The quickest way would be to get the information from the source. I mean, c’mon, would he really have e-mailed us if he didn’t want us to respond?” Stiles drags his laptop into his lap and opens Gmail.

_Alpha Rodriguez,_ Stiles types, thinking that it never hurt to be polite; _This is Stiles Stilinski, Emissary to Scott McCall, Alpha of the Beacon Hills Pack._

_We apologize for our absence at the conference, and any offence it may have caused, but until we received word from you, we weren’t aware that such things existed. We are a young pack, with relatively little knowledge of traditions or ability to distinguish supernatural fact from fiction outside of our own experiences. We are more than willing to learn, though, so any information you could provide us with would be invaluable._

_Thank you very much,_

_Stiles Stilinski_

_Beacon Hills Pack_

Stiles turns the laptop around to let the rest of the pack read it, and, after everyone has given it the nod, clicks ‘send’.

There’s a slightly awkward silence until Jackson says “Wow, Stilinski, that’s the most useful I’ve ever seen you be.” Stiles accordingly launches himself across the room at him in a flying tackle, and normalcy returns.

 

*

 

After pizza and a movie—not, much to Lydia’s displeasure, _The Notebook_ —Stiles pleads exhaustion and manages to extricate himself from the octopus-like pile of limbs that Derek’s huge leather sectional has become.  He waves a hand at the whining that breaks out in his wake, promising to text them the next day and making a face at Erica over his shoulder when he catches his foot on the corner of the coffee table and pitches forward, heading straight for the ground.

Instead of bloodying his nose on the hardwood floor, though, Stiles faceplants into the firm but far more yielding expanse of Derek’s chest. Caught off guard, Stiles gets distracted breathing in Derek’s distinct, woodsy scent for a few seconds before flushing and pushing back from the impromptu embrace that had formed when Derek’s arms came up to steady him.

“Whoa, sorry ‘bout that, big guy. So much for getting graceful in college, huh?” Stiles chuckles awkwardly, too busy flailing around trying to distract from the redness in his cheeks to notice the looks the rest of the pack were shooting each other. Stumbling out of the loft in a flurry of shouted goodbyes and exaggerated gestures, Stiles prayed fervently that the scent of his mortification completely covered the scent of his arousal. ‘Clearly,’ he thought to himself, ‘I am not as over my big, embarrassing crush on Derek Hale as I thought I was.’

 

*

 

The next morning, Stiles woke up to five text messages, one voicemail, and seven e-mails. Frowning slightly, Stiles played the voicemail first, out of longstanding and well-deserved paranoia. _“Stiles,”_ Lydia’s mildly irritated voice came through the phone’s speakers with a crackle of static. _“I know that you consider 3pm to be an acceptable hour to wake up, but I am not going to sit back and enable your sloth. Be at the loft by 2 or face my wrath.”_ Stiles chuckled, saving the message before thumbing into his texts.

_11:04 AM, Scott:_ Bro u’ll nvr believe how many orange slices Isaac just fit in his mouth

_2:03 PM, Erica:_ Batman, I need someone here to stop me from killing Little Red

_2:04 PM, Erica:_ Or to help me

_2:08 PM, Scott:_ No but srsly bro stop angsting about ur crush on Derek and get over here, Erica’s sharpening her nails

_2:12 PM, Danny:_ SOS, Stilinski, we need damage control

Wincing, Stiles glances at the numbers blinking on his clock—2:18 PM—and yanks on the first clothes that come to hand, practically throwing himself down the stairs. He’s out the door, in the Jeep, and across town in record time, panting as he takes the stairs up to the loft two at a time. He hears the fighting long before he gets to the door, and is not surprised to see Scott, Danny, Isaac and Jackson all standing outside the door waiting for him.

“Dude.” Scott’s puppy eyes are out in full force, mirrored and matched by Isaac beside him. Stiles grimaces apologetically, patting him on the head as he shoulders past, through the open door and towards the supernaturally loud yelling and growling coming from within.

“Alright! Enough!” Stiles bellows, copying the way his dad sounds when he needs to get people’s attention. True to form, the yelling stops, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. “What the _hell_ is going on here?” Erica and Lydia both open their mouths to answer, but Stiles makes a swift cutting motion with his arm, silencing them. “No, we are not going to have the two of you yelling over each other again. You’ll each get a turn to speak— _no_ interruptions, _no_ interjections and _no_ snide remarks. Lydia, you’re first.”

Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder, shooting a poisonous look in Erica’s direction. “I came over this afternoon to brainstorm tactics for attending the convention and was just laying out some of my ideas, when _she_ got hysterical and started yelling about me not being the boss of her.”

Stiles gestured at Erica, who was practically vibrating with the urge to defend herself. “There was no brainstorming involved—Prom Queen over there just sailed in and started bossing us around like she had some right to! I’m not about to do something just because _she_ thinks she’s smarter than god!” 

“Alright, alright,” Stiles says, rubbing at his temples with one hand. “It sounds like Lydia may have been a bit…high-handed in her delivery, and Erica didn’t take it well. And I totally get that tensions are high because of this whole League of Alphas, _appreciate thy werewolf neighbor_ situation, but yelling at each other isn’t gonna help anything. So now that we’re all here, and we got the fighting out of the way, why don’t we just talk it all out together?” Stiles took the haughty sniff and low grunt he received as enthusiastic agreement. Hooking an arm around each of them, Stiles led the girls to the couch in the living room, where they sat with him in between them. Slowly, sheepishly, the rest of the pack filed in, taking seats on chairs or the floor near the couch, the tense silence broken by Stiles’s refusal to acknowledge it.

“Derek, hand me your laptop please? Thank you. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but I’m pretty sure that Alpha Rodriguez e-mailed me back this morning. Yep, here it is—take a look.”

This message’s tone is significantly warmer than the first, and much more helpful. Apparently, the supernatural community had heard of all of the crazy monster-of-the-week encounters that Beacon Hills had back when the gang were still in high school, but had no idea what actually happened in the wake of all of it. (Which, to be fair, anything that came to Beacon Hills looking to make trouble didn’t make it out alive, which contributed to the lack of information flowing out.) Rodriguez apologizes for not reaching out sooner, but had only recently heard from a trusted source that the Beacon Hills Pack was not only still alive, but stable, and on the right side of the law, as it were. He includes links and contact information for both the Supernatural Society (which Stiles makes a mental note to forward to Lydia—that sort of networking is more her forte) and the convention. Rodriguez asks Stiles for a headcount and mailing address so that he can send them passes to attend. A quick search reveals that this year’s PAW Con is in the second week of December—two weeks away. Stiles opens his mouth to ask who wants to go but is cut off by both Lydia and Erica simultaneously proclaiming their need to attend. Predictably, this causes bickering to erupt once more in the loft, Erica and Lydia practically climbing into Stiles’s lap in an effort to claw at each other.

Suddenly, strong arms are batting away the feuding girls and lifting Stiles—laptop and all—from the couch, setting him safely on his feet on the other side of the coffee table. Stiles blinks owlishly up at Derek, who is frowning at Lydia and Erica. “Stop _fighting_ ; you’re going to break something.” He growls into the stunned silence, hands still tight around Stiles’s biceps, keeping him out of harm’s way. Stiles feels his cheeks heating and averts his eyes. ‘Christ, I haven’t blushed this much since high school. Play it off, Stiles, cool as a cucumber.’ 

“Okay, listen—Scott’s the Alpha, he has to go. Derek’s our only born were, and the only name that anyone at this thing might recognize, so he’s gotta go. I designated myself the Emissary, so I’ve probably gotta go. Ally’s a hunter, so she _really should not_ go. I don’t know how well a banshee would be received at a werewolf convention, so Lyds should probably not go, at least this time. It’d be stupid to leave Beacon Hills unprotected, so Erica, Isaac, and Boyd should really stay behind, and if Lyds is staying here, so should Jackson. So that means that Danny is our fourth attendee and evens the human-to-were ratio in the group. Any objections?”

Everyone is conspicuously silent and after a few seconds, Scott raises his hand. “Yeah, Scott?”

“I call rooming with Danny!” Scott blurts out in one breath, like someone else was going to beat him to it. Stiles drops his face into his palms, groaning, as Scott and Danny high-five. This is going to be a nightmare.

 

*

 

“This is a nightmare,” Stiles hisses, clutching the phone to his ear.

“Mmmmmm,” Lydia murmurs disinterestedly. “And why is that?”

“Lyds, you know _exactly_ why—don’t be coy, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, everything suits me.” She shoots back, without missing a beat. “Why does it sound like you’re in a bathroom?”

Stiles looks around at the white porcelain sink next to him and the glass shower stall in front of him. “Because…I am in a bathroom?”

They had gotten to the hotel attached to the conference center and checked in several hours ago. All four of them changed into slightly more presentable clothing and went down to the Friday Welcome Luncheon, quickly becoming surrounded by other local packs eager to hear about the mysterious Beacon Hills Pack. With every good-natured question Stiles relaxed further, and saw Danny, Scott and Derek doing the same. By the looks of things, Danny would be getting more than a few propositions after dinner, a fact that he looked inordinately smug about. Everything went well—no bloodshed, no fighting, no passive-aggressive power plays—so much better than Stiles had dared to hope.

“And why, Stiles, are you in a bathroom?” Lydia asks, longsuffering.

Stiles scuffs his foot on the bathmat, knowing how ridiculous he’s about to sound. “Because Derek is here, and he’s _laughing_ and _smiling_ , and I’m hiding in the bathroom talking to you so that I don’t do something _monumentally stupid_ like kiss his dumb face.”

“Stiles,” Her voice sounds almost pained, “for a boy as smart as you are, you can be incredibly stupid.”

“I know!” Stiles shouts, and then quickly drops his voice back down to a whisper. “ _I know_ , Lyds! I mean, I’m lucky that he hasn’t sniffed out anything yet, but I think he’ll probably notice my boner when we _share this queen-sized bed_. God, what do I do? I’m gonna ruin _everything_!” He moans out the last word, head in his hands.

“I thought you promised you’d never mention your dick to me again, Stiles.”

“That is _so not the point_ , Lydia!”

“Well what _is_ the point, then?” Lydia snapped, “Because to me it sounds like you have the perfect opportunity to tell the man you’ve been in love with since high school that you have feelings for him and you’re wasting it _hiding in a bathroom_!”

“I—” Stiles started, stuttering uncharacteristically. “I just don’t want to ruin what we have. I can’t risk that, Lyds.” He sighs. “ _God_ , it was so much easier when I was still in love with you.”

“Easier, maybe. But Derek is better for you in every conceivable way than I would’ve been, romantically.”

Stiles makes a wounded noise. “ _Don’t_ , Lyds. I’m going to make it through this without making everything awkward and terrible, and then we’re never going to speak of it again.” Cocking his head, Stiles hears the door to the suite unlocking. “Gotta go, talk to you later.” He bites out, hanging up before Lydia can answer. He’ll be hearing about that later, but shrugs it off, flushing the toilet as cover before leaving the bathroom.

Stiles had pled exhaustion after the luncheon and skipped the cocktail hour before dinner to, ostensibly, nap in his room. He left the others to their mingling and fled, calling Lydia. Now the cocktail hour is apparently over and Derek is here to collect him for dinner. Derek looks loose and animated in a way that Stiles has only rarely ever seen, and never with so many other people around. Stiles’s chest hurts, but he’s glad—fiercely, resolutely, happy—that Derek is so at ease, shoving aside the ugly, jealous twinge that says that Derek should only be smiling those smiles for _him_.

“Hey,” Stiles greets, smiling as widely as he can, “How was the lupine drink-‘n-dish?” Derek just quirks an eyebrow up, giving Stiles a dry look. “C’mon, man, everyone knows that cocktail hour is just an excuse to booze up and gossip.”

Derek snorts, lips quirking up. “Yeah, that and flirt.” There’s a sick, swooping sensation in Stiles’s stomach until Derek continues with “I never thought I’d say it, but Danny’s going to get a big head if this keeps up.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles manages, relief pouring through him, “Everybody likes Danny.”

“I’ll say,” Derek mutters, moving to paw through his suitcase and finally unearthing his Lydia-approved dinner outfit. Stiles chuckles, doing the same, and they dress in comfortable silence until Derek breaks it.

“Are you okay?” He asks, gesturing at the perfectly made bed, “It doesn’t look like you slept…”

“Oh no, yeah, I’m totally fine!” Stiles internally curses himself for not pulling back the covers or anything. “I was just a little overwhelmed—this is a lot of supernatural mojo all in one place. I just needed a little time to adjust.” He shrugs, trying to play it off. It wasn’t a lie, either; Stiles’s wasn’t inherently magical himself, but his spark was an excellent _conductor_ of magic, and the amount of energy in the hotel had made him dizzy when he first stepped through the door.

“Alright,” Derek says, brows still furrowed in the way that meant he was concerned. “Don’t push yourself too hard, though. The last thing we need is you passing out into your mashed potatoes.” He finishes gruffly, cheeks looking a little pink in the yellow hotel light.

Stiles grins, charmed despite himself. “Don’t worry, big guy, I know my limits.” Derek shoots him a look that clearly says that he disagrees, but he lets it pass without comment, straightening his jacket in the mirror before heading to the door. Stiles follows, tugging at his collar. While Stiles often pushes his physical limits, surrounded as he was by superhuman were-creatures, there are several emotional limits that he respects religiously. The biggest one of which, of course, is staring at him with big, earnest hazel eyes from the doorway. Dredging up a smile from somewhere, Stiles moves into the hallway, slapping Derek on the back as he goes, determined to have a normal, productive dinner and put aside all thoughts of impossible ‘what if’s.

 

*

 

Everyone wakes bright and early the next day, despite the liberal quantities of alcohol that had been imbibed at dinner. Over coffee and eggs at the complimentary breakfast bar, everyone decides to split up to go to panels. Stiles and Danny have quite a bit of overlap—things dealing with humans, magic, and/or diplomacy are areas of high interest—as do Scott and Derek on the werewolf side of things. They make plans to meet up for dinner, and then go their separate ways. As soon as they were out of earshot, Danny turns to Stiles. “So, Cousin Miguel, huh. After all these years?”

“Always.” Stiles grumbles back, resentfully. “You really need to let that go, Mahealani.”

“Never,” Danny smirks. “I am holding that over your head forever, and when you get married I am going to include that in my speech at your wedding.”

Stiles must make a pained face, because Danny backs off, changing the subject. They chat about nothing important, just catching up until they get to their first panel: Communication and Conflict Resolution in Integrated Packs. It’s fascinating, and all things that Stiles and the others had learned painfully through trial and error. Stiles spares a moment to regret that they hadn’t known about this in the early years, when everything was uncertain and terrifying. Maybe if they’d known this then they would’ve been able to save more lives, kept more people from being dragged into a supernatural cage match. He shakes it off quickly, knowing that being maudlin doesn’t help anything, and goes back to listening to a beta from a Washington pack talking about how to argue with a were without challenging them. Stiles catches Danny giving him the side-eye and smirks—that distinction isn’t something that Stiles ever gave much consideration to, much to the pack’s dismay.

Their next panel—Not Just For Tinkerbell: A Practical Application of Magic—is run by 3 silver-haired women and one young man, their combined magical energy making Stiles feel like he had 5 cans of Red Bull injected straight into his bloodstream when he walks into the room. The 4 of them are knitting at the front of the room, talking amongst themselves, occasionally waving their hands at a basket of yarn and sending a ball whizzing either into their hand, or at one of the others’ heads. Stiles drags Danny up to the second row and sits down, buzzing with the combined energy of a room full of witches.

“Alright, alright!” The woman on the left with a green cardigan with kittens on the pockets yells once everyone has filed in. “Settle down, everyone! Sit down and hush up, I’ve got a backgammon game at four!”

“No you don’t, Gerty.” Pipes up the lady next to her, decked out in a fur coat and pearls. “You’re forever forgetting that backgammon is on Tuesdays, now.”

“Damn it, June, stop telling me my own schedule! I am a grown woman!” Gerty growls back, surprisingly scary for a woman under five feet tall and probably 80 lbs. soaking wet.

The young man, sitting between June and the other woman in a many-layered tie-dye dress, calls out “Swear Jar!” in a bored tone without looking up from his knitting, clearly used to this. Gerty frowns heartily and sends a ball of periwinkle yarn sailing at his face, connecting with his cheekbone with a soft thump.

“Thank you for that lovely introduction, dearies.” The last woman calls out sarcastically, shooting the others a dry look. She continues, turning to the audience. “My name is Willow, and in the next two hours my friends and I are going to try and teach you all how to do magic without blowing up yourself and your loved ones!”

Gerty drops her head into her hands, groaning, while June smiles placidly and the man rolls his eyes.

‘I take everything back,’ Stiles thinks, star-struck, ‘Werewolf Conventions are _awesome_.’

 

*

 

Stiles and Danny met up with Scott and Derek in the hotel lobby, exchanging greetings and heading into the hotel’s attached restaurant for dinner, too tired to bother with scouting out local eateries. Scott gives a rundown of the panels he and Derek attended—‘Management and Mitigation of Instinctual Urges’ and ‘Do's and Don't's of Were-hood in the Modern World’—which led into Stiles waxing poetic about the magic panel for the first half-hour of the meal. He recounted every spell and sarcastic comment, much to Scott and Danny’s amusement.

“And then Jeremy actually _breathed fire_ , like a _dragon_! How awesome is that, right?” Stiles looked up and caught Derek’s eyes for the first time all night, noticing the deep scowl on his face with concern. “Derek, are you okay? Did something bad happen?”

Derek startles, clearly not expecting to be addressed. “No. Nothing happened.”

Stiles starts to reply, but hesitates. An awkward silence falls, everyone averting their eyes and quickly sticking food in their mouths. That plan backfires when a man’s unfamiliar voice comes from over Stiles’s shoulder. “Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles startles, coughing a bit as he stands and turns to face the older man. “Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”

The man is tall and broad, black hair greying at the temples, tanned face creased with laughter lines. “My name is Martín Rodriguez. I apologize for not coming to speak with you sooner, but I was delayed and only got here this afternoon.”

“Alpha Rodriguez, a pleasure to meet you!” Stiles sticks out his hand and shares a firm handshake with the older man. “This is my Alpha, Scott McCall,” Rodriguez and Scott shake hands as well, sizing each other up, “and this is Derek Hale and Danny Mahealani.” Stiles gestures at each in turn from across the table. Rodriguez smiles at both of them before turning his attention back to Stiles. “Would you like to sit with us? We’ve already eaten, but I’m sure we could manage some desert.” Stiles offers, unsure of the proper etiquette.

“Thank you, that would be lovely.” The Alpha smiles, pulling up an empty chair from a neighboring table and seating himself between Stiles and Scott. The conversation is horribly stilted at first, carried almost singlehandedly by Stiles’s staunch determination to not let any silence linger long enough to be awkward. After a few minutes, Danny starts contributing, and Scott follows along soon after that. Derek is typically quiet, but Rodriguez doesn’t seem to mind. He is the model picture of an Alpha, Stiles thought, someone he could see Scott becoming in 40 years. Rodriguez even manages to draw Derek out of his shell a bit eventually, asking him questions about what it was like, going from beta to alpha and dealing with having two alphas in a territory. Eventually, he looked at his watch and startles, rising from his seat. Instinctively, Stiles stands with him.

“Wow, I completely lost track of time. You boys are good company.” Rodriguez says with a wink.

“You’d be the first to accuse us of that, sir.” Stiles replies, laughing.

“Oh, stop it with the ‘sir’, just ‘Martín’ is more than sufficient. I have to run, but I hope that I’ll see you all at my panel tomorrow?” He looked around at Stiles and the others, taking in their nods.

“We wouldn’t miss it.” Stiles confirms with a final handshake before the older man takes his leave.

Stiles sits, looking around at the mixed expressions of pleasure and mild bewilderment on the faces of his friends.  “Man,” he says, breaking the silence that had fallen, “we totally _rock_.”

Danny is the first to laugh, but all four of them quickly fall into hysterics, chuckling all the way through paying for their dinner and retreating to their rooms upstairs, everyone falling asleep with smiles still on their faces.

 

*

 

Alpha Rodriguez’s panel is, Stiles had been told, one of _the_ events to see at PAW Con every year, so Stiles rolls a heavily protesting Derek out of bed several hours before the panel is scheduled to begin, knowing how these things go and counting on being in for a long wait. He sends a half-comatose Derek down to Ballroom C where the panel will be taking place to get a spot in line and goes to wake up Scott and Danny. Standing in the hallway pounding on the door for five minutes produces the desired results, and a sleepily rumpled Scott opens the door to glare blearily out. Stiles pushes past him and heads straight for Scott’s suitcase, pulling out some matching clothes for him and shoving them at his chest, leaving him to figure out how to put them on for himself. Flinging himself down in Scott’s vacated spot on the bed, Stiles pokes around at the lump of bedding that is Danny until a hand comes out to swat at him. On the other side of the room, Scott has one leg in his pants and has somehow gotten his head stuck in his shirt, making pathetic whining noises to the room at large. Sighing, Stiles gets up and tugs Scott’s shirt into place, guiding his head and arms through the appropriate holes. Scott blinks when his head emerges into the light, tipping forward and snuffling into Stiles’s shoulder.

“It should be illegal for someone to be this cute when they’re sleepy, Scotty.” Stiles grumbles, gently propping Scott upright again before bending down to coax his other leg into his pants. Fastening them, Stiles steps back, and puts his hands on Scott’s cheeks, smooshing them together.

“C’mon, bro, you gotta wake up. We’ve gotta get in line for Martín’s panel now before it gets ridiculously long—Millie at the magic panel told me so yesterday. You and Danny are on breakfast and coffee duty, okay? Use your early-morning adorableness to wake Danny up without getting maimed, go get food and drink, and come join Derek and me in line. Got it?” He pats Scott’s cheeks until he yawns and nods, flapping his hands in Stiles’s direction.

Stiles waves back, yawning himself, and lets himself out of the room, closing the door behind him. He makes his way over to the elevator and down to the lobby, which the line for Ballroom C is already starting to stretch into. Walking alongside the line, Stiles spots Derek standing about halfway through, maybe 30 people in front of him, the line running parallel to a wall with a sign for the panel (The Role of the Human: Strength Through Diversity) taped to it. As he gets closer, Stiles sees Derek swaying on his feet, clearly fighting to stay awake. Stiles smiles, unbearable fondness welling up in his chest as he reaches Derek, putting a hand on his shoulder. Derek just blinks sleepily over his shoulder at Stiles and leans more heavily into his hand. Stiles tugs gently on Derek’s sleeve, pulling him down to the floor, where both of them slump against the wall, Derek’s head falling onto Stiles’s shoulder and breathing evening out into a light doze. Stiles stays awake, waving Scott and Danny over when they get there fifteen minutes later with coffee and pastries. They sit cross-legged across from Stiles and Derek, speaking softly and sipping coffee, passing Stiles a muffin when he gestures at the bag. Another twenty minutes pass like that, the line slowly lengthening, before there’s movement from the front and Derek jerks awake. Stiles hands him his coffee and stands, stretching his arms over his head. The line slowly starts to shuffle forward, and soon the four of them are passing through Ballroom C’s double doors.

 

*

 

They wind up next to the middle aisle in the third row, which is prime seating for Danny, who had apparently been instructed by Lydia to livestream this panel to her. As Danny sets up his phone on a tripod thing that he produced out of thin air, Stiles chats to Scott about what he’s learned about inter-pack diplomacy, and Derek is quiet, watching the people filing in. Before long, the room is full to bursting, the low hum of lots of people in one place all talking cut off abruptly by the sharp squeal of microphone feedback.

“Whoa, sorry about that, folks!” A young man is holding the mic, smiling sheepishly. “My name is Emmitt Miller, and I’m one of the co-hosts of his panel.” Emmitt goes on to explain that he is human, born into a werewolf pack, and talks about his role in his pack, how wolves treat him within his pack and without it. He then hands off the mic to Martín, who introduces himself and then talks at length about the humans in his pack from a wolf’s perspective, and from an alpha’s perspective. Finally, the mic is passed to a young woman, Sari, who was bitten in college, who struggled with being an omega for several years before meeting her future husband and becoming a beta in his pack. She speaks about her difficulty reconciling the parts of her that were human with the parts that were wolf, how it took her a long time to reconcile with all of her new instincts and urges, how they made her feel like a monster for many years. Stiles catches Scott’s eyes during her story and they exchange looks, both thinking that, if not for all of the violence and craziness that surrounded Scott being bitten, Scott probably would have been like Sari. Once they’ve all said their piece the mic goes back to Emmitt, who opens the floor up to audience questions. A sea of hands quickly shoot up and a volunteer runs around the room with another mic, letting the audience members ask their questions directly. 

The questions came in a steady stream, some people asking them to elaborate on something they mentioned earlier, some asking them about something they hadn’t addressed. The questions were articulate and thoughtful, and Stiles listens with rapt attention, thrilled to be getting the answers to things he’d never thought to ask before. It was about twenty minutes into the questioning period when a beta from a pack in the Midwest asked about the differences between alphas and betas interacting with pack humans, and how to introduce humans born outside of a pack into the supernatural. Martín paused for a moment before glancing around the room, eyes landing on Stiles and smiling. Stiles got a sinking feeling in his gut and turned to look at Derek, who looked similarly apprehensive. “As a matter of fact,” Martín was saying, “just last night I met a couple of people who could answer those questions far better than I can—I’ve never been human, you see, and it’s been many years since I’ve been a beta.” He pauses to let the chuckles die down before continuing. “Mr. Stilinski, Mr. Hale, would you mind coming up here and taking this question?” Stiles heaves a low sigh and stands, making his way into the aisle with Derek right behind him. Derek, of course, leaps up onto the stage with no effort; bending down to help Stiles clamber up after him. Taking the mic from a grinning Martín, Stiles looks out at the audience.

“Whoa, there’re a lot of you.” The crowd laughs good-naturedly and Stiles relaxes a little. “Hi there, I’m Stiles Stilinski, of the Beacon Hills Pack. I’m 100% human, and, before my best friend over there got bitten by a rouge alpha, was 100% unaware that werewolves existed, so I’m pretty much the exact target demographic for this question. In what has become a running theme in my life, though, I was really not a normal example of a human reacting to the supernatural, because _I_ was actually the one that had to convince Scott that he was a werewolf, not the other way around.” The whole audience laughs and Scott sticks his tongue out at Stiles.

“I can say with certainty, though,” Stiles continues, turning to smirk at Derek, “that the patented Derek Hale method of stalking potential pack members and threatening them until they join his pack is _not_ the recommended method.” Nervous titters broke out in the crowd as Derek rolled his eyes at Stiles, crossing his arms. “I kid, I kid,” Stiles reassures, “there were many, _many_ , extenuating circumstances back when our pack first formed—it was a crazy, confusing time for everyone. Derek did the best he could—we all did the best we could. But since then, we’ve done the whole reveal with several other humans, and have found a way that works well for us. We tend to have one human in the pack, whoever’s close to who we’re bringing in, along with an experienced, in-control were,” Stiles glances at Derek, who’s watching him back, and turns away quickly, flushing, “to, y’know, provide a demonstration. We’ve found that doing this outdoors tends to lead to less fear—they don’t feel trapped that way. Also, having the were leave after the show part of show-and-tell lets the initiate vent their instinctual fear and disbelief without worrying about repercussions or hurting anyone’s feelings, and actually helps them come around quicker. Then just carrying on as normal and showing them that being superhuman doesn’t actually make you any less human and giving them time to adjust on their own.” Stiles shrugs. “I can’t say that method would work for everyone, but it’s what works for us.” He then hands the mic to Derek and steps back, feeling shy suddenly.

Derek clears his throat before speaking. “Hello, my name is Derek Hale, of the Beacon Hills Pack. I’m not really a…talker like Stiles is, so I apologize in advance if my response isn’t as full and informative as his.” The audience laughs and Stiles pouts and kicks at Derek’s shin lightly, getting a quick grin in response. “I was raised as a beta in a family of werewolves, and we had born-human siblings. Back then, the humans were no different from the weres to me, they were all pack, all family. Sure, I had to be more careful around the humans and not roughhouse with them the way I could with my were siblings, but that was really the only difference.” Derek takes a breath and Stiles gently bumps his shoulder with his own in solidarity. “As an alpha, I have started to notice the humans in the pack differently. Being an alpha is so much _more_ than being a beta—more sensory input, more of a connection to your betas, more strength—more of everything that makes you a wolf, basically. So, to alphas, pack humans are…cherished.” Stiles can feel Derek’s eyes on him and resolutely keeps his eyes on his feet. “They’re important—vital, because they help the alpha retain his humanity, which makes the whole pack more stable and balanced. So any differences in interaction stem from that, I think.” Derek finishes, handing the mic back to Martín.

“Thank you very much for those excellent answers, Stiles, Derek.” The older man nods to each of them in turn. “And I think that’s just about all the time we have today. Thank you all for coming out to our panel, and I hope you have a great rest of your time here at PAW Con!”

 

*

 

The second people start getting up to leave, Stiles all but jumps off the stage, scrambling down before Derek could lift a hand to help him. Jogging back over to Scott and Danny, Stiles rests his head on Scott’s shoulder, whining high and lupine like the weres do. “That was so embarrassing.” He mutters into the fabric of Scott’s shirt, seeing Derek approaching them from the corner of his eye.

Scott pats him on the back, consoling. “It really wasn’t that bad, bro. You sounded smart and cool and everything! Everybody loved you, I promise.” Stiles just grumbles and herds them all out the door, leaving them in the lobby when his phone starts ringing. He waves them in to the restaurant to get a table and heads outside to take the call, hoping that the fresh air will clear his head.

“Hello?”

“Stiles, what the hell was that?”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Stiles confirms that the screen reads ‘Lydia’ before replacing it and answering. “I…don’t know? What are we talking about?”

“That flagrant display in the panel! You nearly bite my head off for suggesting that you just _talk_ to him like a normal person, and then you go and act like that in front of everyone?”

“Lyds, I honestly have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, for god’s sake—you have your tablet on you, right? I’m sending you the file I got from Danny. Watch it, and then tell me that you’re still keeping everything a secret.”

Stiles wedges the phone between his ear and his shoulder and rummages around in his bag for his tablet, quickly taking it out and pulling up the video file Lydia sent him. It buffers for a few seconds before showing him and Derek walking up onto the stage.

“God, Lydia, I already had enough performance anxiety about that, why are you making me live through it again?”

“Just be quiet and _watch yourself_.”

Stiles does as she bade, feeling the same habitual, retroactive embarrassment as always at seeing himself blushing and flailing around like an idiot. Then he sees himself look at Derek and his stomach drops down by his toes. His feelings are clear to read in his eyes, so much love in his tone that you’d have to be blind and deaf to miss it.

“ _Oh no_ ,” he whispers, crouching down, “no, no, no, no, I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I, Lyds? I mean, there’s no way he can’t know that I’m completely, stupidly, in love with him now—he’s probably so uncomfortable now, Jesus, why did I have to get up on stage like a _huge idiot_?”

“Stiles,” Lydia says softly, earlier indignation smothered under her concern, “it’s okay, really, just watch him—”

Stiles cuts her off, frantic. “Lydia, is this how I’ve always looked at him? Tell me the truth.”

“Well,” she hedges, “for the last couple of years at least, yes, but—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles breathes out softly. “Lyds, I’ve gotta go do…something. Vomit, possibly. I’ll talk to you later.” 

He takes the phone away from his ear and slides it back into his pocket, standing dazedly. He makes his way back through the lobby and into the restaurant on shaking knees, knowing that he has to try to do damage control, or _something_. He recognizes the set of Derek’s shoulders from behind as he walks over, trying to school his expression into something approaching normal. Apparently, he fails, because the second Scott sees him, he looks incredibly alarmed and immediately asks if Stiles is okay, if that was bad news from home. Stiles reassures him that it wasn’t, that everything’s fine, as he sinks into the waiting chair between Scott and Derek, but the looks on everyone’s faces make it clear that they don’t believe a word of it. He tries to act normal—as though he wasn’t head-over-heels for Derek—but can’t bring himself to address Derek directly and flinches away when their fingers brush intimately over some silverware, so he’s aware that he probably fails. Dinner passes slowly and torturously, Stiles babbling like he hasn’t since he was 16 to try to cover up for his awkward behavior, and everyone else worried and suspicious. As soon as he can, Stiles claims an upset stomach and flees, locking himself in his room.

 

*

 

Not more than 10 minutes later, Stiles looks up from where he had been sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands to see Derek edging through the door tentatively, unsure of his welcome. That makes Stiles feel even worse, hating that he was the one to put that look on Derek’s face.

“Did I…” Derek’s voice is so soft, Stiles has to strain to catch it. “Did I do something wrong?”

Stiles’s heart breaks even more, and he leaves all shreds of his dignity behind in an effort to reassure Derek. “No, no, no—of course not, Derek. It’s all me—it’s not your fault I feel this way—none of this is your fault in any way. I completely understand if you want me to keep my distance, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I thought I could keep it together better than this, but I was wrong and I couldn’t keep a handle on it, but I won’t let it affect the pack, I promise.” Stiles babbles nervously, knotting his fingers together. “I’ll let it go, I swear, I won’t be a creep; just give me a little bit of time.”

Derek had moved closer to Stiles during his rant and touches his chin lightly now, drawing Stiles’s head up to look him in the eye. 

“Let go of what, Stiles?” He asked, quietly but intensely. 

“Wha—you know what I’m talking about, Derek!” Stiles splutters, taken aback. “I know you’re the injured party here, but there’s no need to be cruel.”

“No, Stiles, I need to hear you say it.”

Stiles shoves back from Derek and stands, hurt coloring his tone, face flushing in anger and embarrassment. “I’ll let go of my _feelings for you_ , alright? Are you happy now?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, face open in a way that even Stiles has rarely seen it, “I thought you were avoiding me because you figured out about _my_ feelings for _you_.”

Stiles’s brain short-circuits. “Your _what_?”

Derek rolls his eyes, still looking frighteningly fond. “I called you _cherished_ in front of a room of over a hundred people, what more do you want, an engraved letter of intent?”

“You,” Stiles stutters, heart going a mile a minute, “You called _humans_ cherished.”

“Last time I checked, you _are_ a human, Stiles.” Derek replies, drily, “You’re also the only human in the pack that isn’t already spoken for. I also _looked straight at you_ when I said it.”

“But you said that you noticed that ever since you became an alpha—” Stiles’s brain finally catches up with his mouth. “You _asshole_ , you mean I’ve been _pining_ for you for _years_ for _no good reason_?” He steps forward, fisting his hand in Derek’s shirt and pulling him in for a kiss too long-in-coming to be anything but heated and frantic.

He draws back, panting out “We could have been doing _this_ ,” slipping his arms around Derek’s back and down to his ass, grabbing and pulling their hips flush together, making them both groan, “for years, Der. _Years!_ ”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’ve got all the time in the world now, isn’t it?” Derek growls out, eyes flashing. He walks forward, tipping Stiles backwards onto the bed with a squawk and a thump.

“Oh, wolf’s got moves, huh?” Stiles teases, feeling buoyant with happiness, anchored by Derek’s firm weight above him.

“Only what I’ve fantasized about doing to you,” Derek says into the sensitive skin of Stiles’s neck. “ _God_ , the way you smell, it drives me _crazy_. I always wanted to pin you down like this and see if you taste as good as you smell.”

Stiles shudders, hips coming up of their own accord. “Why don’t you, then?” The words are challenging, but his tone is soft, needy. Derek draws back just enough to get Stiles’s shirt off before licking and sucking at his neck, biting softly at it with blunt, human teeth. Moving down Stiles’s chest, he peppers the pale, soft skin with kisses and licks before latching onto a nipple, nearly causing Stiles to jolt off of the bed with a shout. Stiles, meanwhile, yanks at Derek’s shirt for all he’s worth, wanting it _gone_. Derek detaches himself from Stiles for long enough for Stiles to whip the shirt off and, in a display of his impressive flexibility, flip Derek so that he is lying on his back with Stiles atop him.

Derek smiles and palms Stiles’s ass through his jeans, a deep rumbling purr coming from his chest. Stiles leans down and kisses him, incapable of resisting, before quickly unbuttoning his jeans and shoving them down and off, along with his socks, not wanting them between them. He then turns to Derek, reclining on his elbows, the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen. He crawls over, popping the button on Derek’s jeans free, rubbing his impressive erection through the fabric.

“Stiles, please,” Derek grates out, swallowing convulsively. Stiles slides the zipper down slowly, bending down to take one of Derek’s nipples in his mouth. Releasing it after a few good licks, Stiles looks up at Derek. “Please…what, Der?”

“Touch me, _please_.” Derek is shuddering and twitching, trying to hitch his hips up into Stiles’s hand. Stiles can’t resist dropping a kiss on Derek’s slack, reddened lips, biting at them until Derek moans loudly. He then shimmies down Derek’s body, taking hold of his jeans at the waistband and drawing them down slowly, Derek lifting his hips to help. Once the pants are gone, Stiles returns to his position on top of Derek, gets distracted grinding their cloth-covered erections together for a minute. “What do you want, Derek?” He pants against Derek’s chest, barely able to get the words out. “ _Anything,_ ” comes Derek’s reply, sounding like it punched out of him, “Anything you want, Stiles.”

Stiles has to close his eyes at the possibilities that calls to mind, far too many for one night, and most far too involved for round one, where finesse won’t play much of a role. He decides to go simple, sliding Derek’s underwear down and getting his first look at his cock. It was gratifyingly flushed, leaking at the tip, long and thick, but not so much as to be intimidating. Stiles catches Derek’s eyes—which had long since bled crimson—and licks a long, wet stripe up his palm. Wrapping his hand around Derek’s dick and stroking it once makes Derek shout and tremble, shutting his eyes. Stiles leans over and drops kisses on his eyelids, cheeks, lips, all over his face. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Der. I’ve dreamed of having you like this.” Derek pulls Stiles into a deep, frantic kiss, releasing him to say “Me too, Stiles. _Me too._ ” Stiles continues to pump Derek’s dick, noting what makes him twitch and moan and storing it away for later use. No more than half a dozen strokes later Derek is clenching up with a whine, coming hot and wet into Stiles’s fist. Stiles brings his hand up to his mouth, eyes locked with Derek’s, and licks a stripe off of his palm. Before he even knows Derek has moved, Stiles finds himself on his back with Derek’s tongue in his mouth, a possessive growl rattling his ribcage.

Derek releases Stiles’s mouth, sliding down his torso with the sinuous grace of a predator, hooking a claw in Stiles’s briefs with a smirk before tearing them away. “I hope you’re not planning on making a habit of that,” Stiles grumbles, turned on despite himself. “I’ll buy you new ones,” Derek rumbles into the soft skin of Stiles’s inner thigh, sucking a dark mark into the tender flesh.

“Possessive wolf,” Stiles says lowly, threading his fingers through Derek’s hair. Derek’s answering grin is 100% wolf when he bites out “ _Mine_ ” before parting his lips and sinking down on Stiles’s dick. Stiles groans, tightening his fingers in Derek’s dark hair, shuddering at the feeling of his pleased growl around his cock.

“Oh _god_ , Der, that feels so good,” Stiles slurs out, trying to stop himself from bucking up into the wet heat of Derek’s throat. Derek slides his hands up the backs of Stiles’s thighs, grabbing his ass and thrusting his hips forward, pushing his cock further into the wet heat of his mouth. Stiles releases a strangled yell and takes the hint, pushing in and out of Derek, fucking his throat. Stiles opens his eyes, having shut them at some point due to sensory overload, and looks down at Derek, lips stretched pink against his cock, cheeks hollowed as he sucks, beautiful multicolored eyes locked on Stiles’s face. Stiles keens and grips Derek’s hair tighter, stuttering out a warning. When Derek just sucks harder in response, Stiles takes it as the permission that it is and comes with a shout, trembling at the feeling of Derek swallowing around him.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Stiles breathes after he’s recovered slightly, dragging Derek up to kiss him and tasting his come in his mouth, spent cock twitching slightly at the thought. “We are definitely doing that again, just give me, like, five minutes.” Derek smiles, infinitely soft and fond and nuzzles against Stiles’s temple, drawing him close and holding him until they both doze off.

 

*

 

They're rudely awakened by a flurry of knocking on their door the next morning. Scott's voice comes through the door, muffled but recognizable. "Stiles! Time to get up! You two're on breakfast duty today!"

Derek and Stiles blink sleepily and look at each other, staying still and quiet in the hopes that Scott will just leave. They have no such luck, though, and the banging resumes. Grumbling, Derek tosses the sheet back and swings out of bed, snagging the only pair of underwear to survive last night and slipping them on before striding over and yanking the door open mid-knock.

"No." He says with a glare, before shutting the door in Scott's face. Scott is flabbergasted for a few seconds before the scents coming out of the room in front of him make it clear what has been happening in there. 

"IT'S ABOUT TIME!" Scott hollers through the door, quickly retreating, plugging his ears and breathing through his mouth. “I’M HAPPY FOR YOU GUYS. DON’T COME NEAR ME TODAY!” The hall was quiet for a minute before Scott yells again. “DANNY SAYS HE’S LOOKING FORWARD TO TOASTING AT YOUR WEDDING.”

Under the covers, Stiles snickers, blushing. "My hero!" He says, batting his eyelashes at Derek as he drops back into bed. Derek snorts, burying his face in Stiles's neck. 

"So," Stiles begins, carding his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Derek's neck. "PAW Con was awesome. Who do we see about getting passes for next year?"

Derek draws back, rolling his eyes, and kisses the giggles right off of Stiles's lips. Stiles wraps his arms around his neck and looks at him for a moment, chest swelling with affection. “Just so you know, I wasn’t kidding about anything I said last night, Derek. I love you—I’ve loved you since high school, probably, and I can’t see anything changing that now.”

Derek’s eyes are warm and bright; he looks happier than Stiles has seen him, possibly ever. “And I’ve loved you for just as long—even back when you were just a pain-in-the-ass kid with too much courage and too little sense.”

Stiles snorts, kissing the corner of Derek’s mouth. “My plans were still better than yours, buddy.”

“Oh yeah?” Derek teases, “What do you plan to do with me now?”

Stiles slots their legs together, rolling his hips suggestively. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

 

*

 

In the exit survey that they're asked to fill out after preordering their weekend passes for next year, Stiles writes "Without exaggeration, PAW Con was one of the best experiences of my life." and shows it to Derek, getting one of those soft, crinkly-eyed smiles in return. 

'Yeah,' Stiles thinks, ' _definitely_ coming back next year.'

 

**Author's Note:**

> Then Stiles gets back to Beacon Hills and Lydia punches him right across the jaw for hanging up on her and cutting her off so much. Stiles buys her a huge bouquet of flowers with a note on it that reads "Lydia is a goddess who is always right about every single thing forever and ever, amen." and she forgives him.


End file.
